


Pressure point

by Rein_Deilerd



Category: Overlord - Maruyama Kugane & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, No Romance, Sick Character, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23938642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rein_Deilerd/pseuds/Rein_Deilerd
Summary: As Ainz is off to fight Shalltear, the Floor Guardians are stuck watching and dreading the worst. Demiurge does not take it well, at all.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 52





	Pressure point

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, this is officially the first time I have written something in English without trying it out in Russian first - and it's yet another one of my sickfics, yay. This takes place during Volume 3, right after Demiurge has his little meltdown in chapter 16. The vulnerability he showed in that moment is a side of him we don't see often, and I wanted to explore it a bit more, as well as his relationship with Albedo. The winged lady knows what she's doing, Demiurge! You better listen to her.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see myself out for a moment.”

For a minute there, Demiurge was convinced that he would be stopped again – if not by Cocytus, then by somebody else. Surprisingly, no such attempt has followed – as if all the other people in the room knew perfectly well that he would not attempt to intervene with the inevitable anymore. Not when all of his subordinates were sealed on the 7th Floor, unable to be sent into the battlefield. Not when he himself would never be forgiven for leaving the Tomb without order. Not when the entirety of Nazarick has seemingly turned against him.

As soon as the door had closed behind his back, Demiurge let out a short, abrupt sigh and swallowed hard – as if trying and failing to regain his composure. He did not intend for his absence to be longer than a couple of minutes – he would breathe in and out a few times, calm his nerves and return to the other Guardians left in the Tomb, their eyes glued to the screen showing their beloved master, Ainz Ooal Gown, ready to enter a battle he had barely a chance to survive in. Not that Demiurge was doubting him. By the glory of Lord Ainz, he would never. He would never – and yet here he was, unable to catch his breath which was leaving his body in short, uneven spasms. He was scared – more scared than he had ever been before. In fact, he was not even entirely sure what he was feeling – the sensation was too new for the usually composed and emotionless demon. Demiurge has always prided himself on being impeccable when it comes to carrying himself in front of his equals and subordinates alike – and he was not about to betray himself on it. He just needed a few more minutes to cool down. Maybe a little walk down the hall and back. Nothing more than that.

The first few steps felt fine, calming even – the familiarity of the carpeted floor, the high ceiling and the walls around him allowed for a bit of disassociation. He walked down these halls every day for as long as he could remember – they were ingrained into his eyes, his steps, his very being. Every day, he would walk around giving out orders and running small errands, all while waiting for his master to call upon him – at which point he would be in the throne room in a heartbeat. His master, Ainz Ooal Gown. His master, who was not here at the moment. Who might never step into Nazarick again. Who decided to fight all alone, because he knows best, but what if he made a mistake? What if something goes terribly, unrepairably wrong? What if…

The familiar walls began to close down on Demiurge, their texture unstable and wavering. He could barely feel his legs, yet the door on the opposite side of the hall kept getting closer, so he must have been walking. He could hear blood pulsating in his ears, almost loud enough to silence his thoughts – yet he could still hear, and every new thought felt like a betrayal. He did not trust Lord Ainz to return, and the weight of this realization was pressing on him more than the walls, or the air that was suddenly scraping his lungs, or the door that was getting closer still – the door leading to the room where could run into the maids, or Éclair, or anyone else he did not want to see. Pulling together what was left of his resolve, Demiurge turned the corner and wandered down another hall, fully intending to lose himself in the spiderweb of architectural wonder that was Nazarick – except that his body seemed to have other plans.

It started as a feeling Demiurge could not quite pinpoint as anything in particular – an uncomfortable sensation nesting somewhere underneath his ribcage, drowned out by the fluttering of his heart and the dull headache the anxiety was giving him. He barely acknowledged it back when he was with the other Guardians, when he screamed at Albedo and Cocytus pulled his weapon on him – but being left alone made him finally succumb to the scariest thought he has ever known, and that though served as a metaphorical punch to the gut – a punch strong enough to make his insides convulse, setting in motion a cavalcade of undesirable events.

Demiurge stopped in the middle of the hall, his breathing heavy, hands shaking slightly. In the back of his mind he acknowledged the fact that his tail was twitching uncontrollably, and tried his best to steady it – but then something else caught his attention, a spasm which came from deep within him. Demiurge clutched his chest – not in fear, but more in surprise, for he had never felt anything like this before, and he liked to think that he knew all there was to know about his body. Another spasm came soon afterwards, and this time it shook his entire body – Demiurge could not help taking a step back, then doubling down from a sensation that was not quite pain, but still shouldn’t have happened, not to him, not right now. His body felt cold all of a sudden; he could feel drips of sweat forming on his skin as goosebumps ran down his entire body, down to the tip of his tail. A painful knot seemed to have formed in his stomach, and it was burning him from the inside, slowly melting the soft tissue around it, sucking it in like a pain-filled black hole. Something wormed its way up his throat – he tried his hardest to swallow it down before it could reach the opening, but his mouth was too dry, his tongue almost feeling like a foreign body. 

To his credit, Demiurge held it down well – for a moment, he could have sworn he’s won. One hand up against the wall, the other pressed firmly against his mouth, he was hunched over, pale, a little bit shaky, but not broken or disgraced yet – and then the third spasm hit him like a tidal wave. His legs giving way, Demiurge fell to his knees, scraping both palms against the harsh fabric of the carpet in an attempt to steady himself. Tired of waiting, his body took it as a sign – a wave of acidic warmth scorched his throat as bittersweet taste filled his mouth, forcing it open. Dark dots dancing in front of his eyes, Demiurge tried his best to focus on what was happening – something he had only seen before in the creatures he experimented upon, something he did not even know his body was capable of. Then again, it made perfect sense. Demons do not have a need for physical sustenance, but they can ingest food just fine, meaning that they have a fully functional digestive system – so it would be natural for them to be able to purge their bodies of harmful substances if needed, assuming a demon could come across a substance potent enough to harm them. Demiurge was quite sure he did not ingest anything harmful today, or the day before; however, he had enough knowledge of anatomy to know that there could be other causes of vomiting. Like, for example, extreme stress caused by an unstable mental state or a traumatic event – which is something that is a characteristic of weak-willed humans, not the noble Guardians of Nazarick, personal creations of the Supreme Beings themselves.

The pain he felt from that realization was stronger than the burning in his throat or the pain clawing at the walls of his stomach – he had become filth, lower than any of his subordinates, lower even than the humans he used for his experiments. Where the other Guardians could stand their ground and unite in their support of Lord Ainz, he failed miserably and succumbed to his weakness – unable to control the body that was given to him by his godly creator. The disgust he felt for himself in that moment, combined with the taste and texture of the substance still in his mouth, made him retch once again – the puddle of bile and half-digested food on the carpet grew bigger, and Demiurge was almost ready to bury his face in it and wallow in his filth like a fallen Guardian should.

That was until he felt something touch his shoulder in a firm yet careful way – the non-threatening kind of touch a friend would give. Almost choking on his puke from surprise, Demiurge turned his head, only to be met with a blurry white shape he did not instantly recognize.

“Don’t mind me, Demiurge. Take your time,” – a familiar voice gently uttered. It was Albedo – no doubts about that. Still, Demiurge could not look at her long enough to focus – he was not finished yet, and he hurried to avert his face to avoid subjecting her to such an unsightly event – or staining her dress with vomit, for that matter.

As the last few spasms, much less violent than before, forced the rest of his lunch out of him, Demiurge could feel Albedo’s hand slide gently up and down his back in soothing motions – and he hated every second of such a patronizing act, as if he didn’t hate himself enough already. Slowly, the pain and the spasming subsided – he could still feel there was something wrong with his stomach, his throat was sore and his head pulsating with pain, but at least he could take a few consecutive breaths without retching now. Trying not to look at the bile covering the floor, lest the sight makes him sick again, Demiurge attempted to stand up, silently praying for Albedo not to help – and his prayers seemed to have worked. The white-clad succubus stayed behind his back, watching him slowly straighten his back as if he was not doing anything out of the ordinary. Something about her demeanor almost felt respectful – and Demiurge did not see himself as worthy of such respect, not anymore. In fact, it would have been easier for him to hear her laugh or insult him – instead, she waited for the demon to face her, then outstretched her hand towards him, clutching something small and shiny.

“Here, you dropped these.”

The shiny object turned out to be his glasses, which must have slipped off while he was bent over the floor. Demiurge accepted the offering and put his glasses on, making the succubus in front of him look more like a woman and less like a faceless blur. Only now he could clearly make out her expression – the woman was as calm as usual, with a distant smile upon her lips. Demiurge felt a slight pang of anger – why wasn’t she disgusted, or mad at him for disrespecting the sacred floor of Nazarick, or choking with laughter at his miserable weakness? If it wasn’t for the ringing in his ears preventing him from thinking straight, he would have found the answer for sure – but he wasn’t the most intelligent of the Guardians anymore, he was barely even a Guardian now. There was a firm silence between them neither was willing to break.

Finally, Demiurge spoke up.

“Why did you follow me?” – his voice came out hoarse and much quieter than he intended.

“I didn’t. I just thought it would be a good idea to clear my head for a bit; we’ve been cooped up in there for a long time now. In fact, I had almost forgotten you’ve left – only to meet you here. You should be glad it was me who found you, and not Éclair – he would have made quite a fuss over the mess you’ve made here.”

Albedo’s smile grew slightly wider. Demiurge pretended to believe her.

“How is the battle going?” – Demiurge asked, the question forcing its way out of his mouth in a more painful way than the bile did a few moments ago. He had to know. He was scared, but he had to.

“Lord Ainz and Shalltear are currently at a standstill. From what it looks like, either of them could win or lose. However, they are both exhausted, so the culmination is drawing near, it seems. I believe we should hurry back – but you have to clean up first,” – Albedo answered, her voice calm and unwavering. Demiurge couldn’t help but notice the way she said Shalltear’s name – almost like she wanted to be over with saying it as fast as possible. That’s right, Shalltear. She is also risking her life out there – possessed, unable to control herself, forced to fight the person she cherishes the most. Still, if Lord Ainz wins, there is a chance she could be saved. If he loses, however…

“You don’t have to hide it, you know,” – Albedo’s voice pierced through his thought, making him snap back to reality.

“To hide what?” – Demiurge asked, his voice filled with contempt for everyone, himself included.

“Your fear. You are fearing for Lord Ainz’s safety, just like all of us are right now. You just decided to keep it inside – and it found its way out, as you can see. You are hurting yourself, that is all.”

Albedo’s tone, her smile, her gentleness – all of it made Demiurge shiver inside. He knew this woman all too well – in a way, she was more dangerous than all the Guardians combined, and he would never want to make an enemy out of her. Still, she wasn’t acting like one in the moment. There was no deceit, no ill will to make out in her words – it was as if she was trying to help. If that was all a bait, Demiurge would take it, if only to see where it leads him.

Albedo tilted her head a bit, her silky black hair covering parts of her face in an almost careless yet clearly calculated way – a succubus would never let her guard down when it comes to appearance.

“So, what do you suppose I should have done instead? Make a scene? Well, I did, and nobody listened. I cannot grasp how you, of all people, could be so unfeeling while talking about your supposed fear. If everything is the way you describe, why am I the only one coming down with an illness at such a time?”

Albedo did not hesitate, as if she knew of the question beforehand.

“That’s because you love Lord Ainz. You love him, perhaps, more than anyone else does. In fact, each one of us loves him more than the others do, in our own way. You are just too used to being alone to try and talk about it with anyone. No use keeping a façade anymore – you are as scared as everyone else.”

Demiurge could hardly believe what he was hearing. Something was telling him that this was the first and the last time Albedo would speak of such things.

“Even you? Are you scared?”

Albedo smiled a knowing smile; never before has she looked more mature and collected.

“For me it’s different. I not only love Lord Ainz – I trust him, the way only a wife can trust her husband. He promised me he would come back – and no force in the world could make him break such promise. This is why I’m not blaming you for breaking down – you are not his wife, after all. Still, Lord Ainz would never wish for you to be in pain, or have pieces of bile dripping onto your suit – so do him a favor, wash your face, change your clothes and return to the others. Who knows, we could miss the moment of our Lord’s victory. That would be unforgivable, wouldn’t it?”

With that, Albedo smiled one last smile at Demiurge, a smile that was almost radiant – and turned her back to him, clearly intent on rejoining the others in their silent spectating. Demiurge looked at her wings slightly swaying along with her steps as his mind was slowly becoming less foggy, a newfound sensation rising in his chest. It’s not like Albedo’s words had gotten to him, or the situation had become less dire – but it still felt as if a bit of the pressure holding his insides in a knot has been lifted. Maybe his body did, in fact, need to get rid of a harmful substance of sorts – maybe not physically so, but still. 

And so, he looked down his chest, fixed his tie and ran his hand through his hair, trying to make himself look presentable again, even with vomit stains covering his red suit. He will get somone to take care of the stain on the carpet, then he will pay a short visit to his floor to get himself thoroughly cleaned up - it shouldn't take long. Thinking about such practical things made Demiurge regain his sharp grip on reality. He wasn't ill anymore - at least not unmanageably so.

He was feeling much better now, and for a moment he caught himself missing the faces of other Floor Guardians. He should join them soon.


End file.
